


Straight Boys

by KaerWrites



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eliot is so in love, Fluff, M/M, Mosaic Timeline, Quentin is so clueless, Smut, but maybe Eliot is clueless too, that night, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 16:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaerWrites/pseuds/KaerWrites
Summary: Seducing adorably clueless straight boys and sleeping with friends’ boyfriends were hardly par from the course for him, but if Eliot had realized that all those other (alas, frustratingly cockblocked) attempts to lure the sweetly ridiculous Quentin Coldwater onto his eager disco stick would culminate in nothing more than that single disastrous night, well, he definitely would have taken steps to ensure he remembered it. Oh, but now how the world was changing.Mosaic timeline pointless smut with a dash of feelings, because I wanted to contribute something happy to the fandom this week.





	Straight Boys

There had been so many times Eliot wanted to kiss Quentin that a part of him had managed to build up a fairly healthy resentment to a certain set of fuzzy foggy memories. Seducing adorably clueless straight boys and sleeping with friends’ boyfriends were hardly par from the course for him, but if Eliot had realized that all those other (alas, frustratingly cockblocked) attempts to lure the sweetly ridiculous Quentin Coldwater onto his eager disco stick would culminate in nothing more than that single disastrous night, well, he definitely would have taken steps to ensure he _remembered_ it. Eliot had wanted to play with the nervous little geek from the first moment he laid eyes on him, and to have that little personal victory tainted by the fact they’d all been compromised by emotion bottles and alcohol and blunts and whatever those delightful little pink pills had been (oh, all right, _and_ guilt, _and_ hurt feelings, _and_ blame, and, _shit_ , so much else) was, well, not great.

Oh, but now how the world was changing.

“Hey,” Quentin had said, and he’d kissed him, and it wasn’t a game and it wasn’t manipulation and there weren’t any girlfriends to be wounded and they were both still, uncharacteristically, perhaps, completely sober, and _it was Q kissing him_ , and it was soft, and it was quiet, and he could feel it when Quentin smiled. He pulled, gently, away.

No guilt, or regret. None of that straight panic Eliot had always imagined he’d have to contend with. Q smiled, and his soft sweet eyes were warm, inviting, a little apprehensive, maybe – rejection, Eliot realized. _Quentin_ was afraid of rejection.

The hair at the nape of his neck was soft against Eliot’s fingertips, warm from his skin. Eliot brushed his thumb against the rapid beating of Q’s pulse in his neck and he returned that smile, and Quentin didn’t pull back when Eliot leaned in.

The whole year suddenly seemed like a waste, knowing they could have been doing this all along and hadn’t been. Not just the last year – every hour, every minute, every second since they’d met.

Q’s lips were soft, his mouth pliant under Eliot’s, open to instruction. Eliot liked that little bit of innocence, of hesitance, the way he let Eliot be the one to deepen the kiss, slowly, carefully. Of course, Quentin had kissed before; he wasn’t some virginal wilting flower. But from the looking glass of Eliot’s debauched world view, he might as well have been, and there was something so pure about it, so open and hopeful and earnest that it tugged on the dark rotten chords of Eliot’s heart. But that was Q, wasn’t it? No pretense, no cynicism.

Eliot guided the kiss – but it was Quentin who lay back against the quilt, who pulled Eliot back with him, over him, there in the pure Fillorian starlight. The night was beautiful around them, suddenly, so calm and so quiet, and there was only them, this, Q’s pliant eager lips, and the slow slide of their tongues, soft wet sounds, a breathy sigh during a brief pause for breath, and hands that wandered, lazily. Eliot’s pulse was racing nearly as fast as Quentin’s had been.

Q had surprisingly good hands. They were more sure of themselves than Eliot would have expected, sliding under his jacket, up his back, without need for invitation. There had always been something good about his touch, something reassuring; he knew how to hug Eliot so hard, just when Eliot needed it – and so it wasn’t the thrill of something new Eliot felt as he propped himself on a forearm and smiled down at him, settling himself closer. It was the comfort of something good and familiar and right. Something safe, and pure, and honest. Eliot liked it.

“El,” Quentin said, breaking the kiss, pulling back, his eyes large, surprised. “Is that your dick?”

“Ah…” Eliot stared down at him. Quentin looked utterly debauched, and the effect was not lost on him – the way his hair had fallen loose around him against the quilt, and his lips had gone red, kiss swollen. Eliot’s appreciation was apparent to them both, pressed against Q’s thigh. It wasn’t as if he could blame a roll of quarters or anything. “Sorry,” he said. Whispered, as if he’d scare it off, since he wasn’t sure, exactly, if that had been a complaint. “I should move,” he said, but didn’t.

Q didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said, a little quickly, and grabbed at Eliot as if he had begun to pull away. His brow furrowed and he frowned, thoughtful. “No,” he said again. “It’s just – you surprised me.”

“Q…” Eliot said, and he laughed, because what the fuck else could he do, and he let his forehead come to rest against Quentin’s shoulder. Of course, _of course –_ the straight boys always found it a little disconcerting, feeling another man’s dick for the first time, knowing they were the reason it was rising to occasion. But Eliot hadn’t been thinking about that, about anything, because Quentin’s arms had been around him, and Quentin’s lips –

“Please,” Quentin said, and Eliot could hear his frown, his frustration. “Don’t – don’t stop. I just…” he looked so thoughtful, when Eliot chanced to look up, so pensive, but frustrated, too, and Eliot was finding it less natural and more awkward to be laying on top of him like –

Quentin wriggled a little, shifting – and Eliot wasn’t pressed to his thigh anymore.

“…oh. Hello,” Eliot said.

Q still looked thoughtful, was still frowning, as he shifted again, and Eliot’s breath caught, and after a moment Quentin’s hips very deliberately lifted to grind up against Eliot again.

“Oh,” Eliot said again. “Oh, we’re really doing this, then?”

Q rolled his eyes, but still managed to look unsure. “You’re telling me you don’t want to?”

It was Eliot’s turn now, propping himself up on a forearm then grinding his pelvis downwards, slowly and deliberately, watching the way Q’s face transformed under the stimulation, the friction.

“Don’t want to what? Dry hump my best friend?” Eliot asked. “I’d be delighted.”

Quentin laughed, breathless, thrilled, thrilling – and they were quiet for a time, rubbing against each other, their breathing growing heavier, their pants less comfortable. Quentin’s arm snaked around Eliot’s shoulders, bracing himself, hard, as he thrust up against him, and when Eliot looked up from watching their bodies it was to find that Quentin was watching _him_. This time when they kissed it wasn’t quite as careful as it had been before – less luxurious, more heated.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” Q said, his head falling back, his arm sliding to Eliot’s waist, and Eliot laughed, a little wild, a little breathless, because normally this would be _nothing_ , but with Quentin…

How could something feel so comfortable and so deliciously dirty, all at once?

“You’re cute,” Eliot laughed, and the words held more fondness than mockery, and Q’s eyes opened, and his hand slid to Eliot’s belt, hesitated there.

“Can I just, uh…?” Quentin asked, and Eliot couldn’t help laughing again.

“Christ. Yes,” Eliot said. He sat up with his knees on either side of Quentin’s thighs to give him room to work – and to give himself a view of the flattering bulge in Q’s pants, and the way Q’s hands trembled as they tried to work the belt open, the way Q had to pause and shake them out, frowning and chewing his lip, his brow furrowing, only for him to go all soft and smiling and warm again when he happened to glance up and find Eliot watching. Q actually paused to press upward to kiss him, and Eliot found himself smiling against his mouth. “I have to say, every time I pictured something like this happening again, I always imagined you would take a bit more convincing,” Eliot teased. Quentin’s frown returned.

“Why?” Q asked.

“Well,” Eliot said, striving for flippancy. As a distraction, he let his own hands wander, dancing his fingertips across the bulge in Q’s pants, settling them just over Q’s belt buckle. He got it open much more quickly, and with much less fumbling, than Quentin was managing. “In my experience, most straight boys do find themselves a little apprehensive when faced with the prospect of touching someone else’s cock.”

He’s said it lightly, flirtatiously, popping the button on Quentin’s fly and walking his fingers back down the straining zipper. Q actually rolled his eyes.

“I literally sucked you off,” Q said. “You know…last time.”

“Ooh, such naughty talk gives me a real fucking thrill,” Eliot said. He was teasing, but also, it was true. More seriously he said, “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

“It’s not the kind of thing you forget…” Quentin answered, with a little frustrated noise. He might have been blushing. His eyes were downcast. He began to struggle again with the workings of Eliot’s pants, and there was no telling if the shaking of his hands stemmed from nerves or the fact that Eliot had pressed his palm to his crotch and was now trying in earnest to rub him through his jeans. Q was very careful with Eliot’s zipper – and, yes, his hands hesitated a moment before they helped Eliot’s cock make its way free of his clothing.

Eliot let him stare at it for a moment before he said, “My eyes are up here, you know.” When that failed to draw Q’s attention, he said, “Hey,” and lifted Q’s chin, and kissed him. Quentin pushed up to meet him, eager, despite his hesitation, grateful for the excuse to take a moment to process, maybe. His touch was light as a butterfly’s wings, but thrilling all the same, because it was Q – Q’s fingertips brushing his cock, Q’s breath stuttering against his lips. Eliot’s much more knowledgeable fingers got him free of his confines without issue, and Q shivered at the first real touch of Eliot’s hand against his naked flesh. He broke the kiss abruptly.

“I forgot how big you were!” Quentin blurted, confessing the very moment their lips parted, as if he had been holding it in all along, and Eliot managed not to laugh, but he did grin.

Quentin’s dick, like so much else about him, was average. Neither particularly big nor small, thin nor thick, it wasn’t the prettiest dick had ever laid eyes on, but neither was it the ugliest. Adequate, one might say, except it was _Quentin’s_ dick, and that made it something more.

Eliot kept those thoughts to himself.

“W – well, you can’t just keep staring at it!” Q protested.

Eliot tossed his head. “You got your eyeful, now I want mine.”

“El,” Quentin began, but he never got to finish the sentence. His whole body jerked, nearly a convulsion, as Eliot shifted himself over him so that he could lay them out against each other, get them both in hand and give them a light, experimental stroke.

“Don’t get ahead of the game now, Coldwater,” Eliot said.

“W – well, don’t be a fucking tease!” Quentin answered, wild-eyed, almost frantic. “Oh, _God_ ,” he shuddered, when Eliot’s slicking spell rolled over them, warm, leaving their shafts glistening. Eliot’s hand stroked over them without resistance, as slow as he could stand it, and Q’s hips jerked, lifted, thrust, as if they had a mind of their own.

“Maybe you’d prefer it – like this?” Eliot reached for Quentin’s hand, and guided his fingers around them both, facilitated a few slow strokes. When he let his own hand fall away, Quentin had no trouble continuing on his own.

Their conversation had not caused a lull in either of their sails, and they were both hard, almost too thick, combined, within the confines of Q’s hand as they slid, slick, against each other, as they thrust, flesh against flesh, into Q’s tight grip. Quentin watched them moving, glistening against each other. Eliot watched Quentin, watched him lick and bite his lip, watched his brows as they furrowed in that way they did as they fucked into his hand. He watched him choke on a sound that was something like a sob, a broken, “ _Ohgod_ ,” half escaping his swollen lips.

It would have embarrassed both of them for Eliot to tell him how beautiful he was. It wouldn’t have served any purpose to let passion run his mouth, reveal to Quentin ridiculous truths he didn’t need to know – such as the fact that he was one of the dearest people in the world to him, that Eliot had wanted him since the day they mat, had loved him for ages, at least since their coronation, that magical day by the rainbow bridge, and that it didn’t even _matter_ that Eliot was in love with him, because that love was ran so deeply that Eliot hadn’t even cared if he could ever even have Quentin, so long as he could spend his days a part of his life.

Eliot didn’t tell him that, even if it could only be this once, if Q decided, later, that he didn’t like dick, didn’t ever want to do this again, it would all be okay, because Eliot was planning to treasure this moment forever.

Eliot didn’t say any of this. He replaced his words with moans, muffled his promises with Quentin’s lips, let Q unknowingly swallow them down, every one, along with whatever dick-addled promises of his own he was making, and instead of spilling his secrets, he only spilled his seed.

At least he lasted longer than Quentin.

\--

It was Quentin who started laughing first. A soft chuckle that built and grew. Eliot looked at him and he realized that he was smiling, had been smiling for a very long time, and then he was giggling, too.

“Eliot,” Quentin said, “I jerked you off.”

“Yes,” Eliot agreed. “Yes, you did.”

“I can’t believe I just jerked you off,” Quentin said. He could barely finish the sentence without giggling, like a silly schoolkid for whom ‘jerk off’ was the deepest taboo of a phrase. They both laughed some more.

There was no sting to Q’s humor, so Eliot didn’t let himself second guess it. He basked in the warmth he felt, the post-orgasm relaxation, the remaining thrill of rocking himself over Quentin, thrusting himself into the slick tight heat provided by Q’s hand and picturing other scenarios he would very much like to get up to with him, as Q watched him like he was the world.

They both lay on their backs on the quilt, staring up at the stars, smiling, laughing, at ease. A simple cleaning spell took care of the evidence of their little romp, but neither one of them had bothered to put himself back into his pants yet. That detail served to make it just a little more unreal – the fact that they lay there, clothed, but naked, together, but separate, amused and overcome and so much more.

He was reminded that it was real when beside him Quentin fumbled for, then found, his hand.

“Hey,” Quentin said, giving it a squeeze. Eliot smiled.

“Hey,” he answered back.

Quentin said, “Let’s talk about anal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, anyone who came this far. This is my first (and possibly only) Magicians fic. I hope the characterizations are okay; I don't usually do pure smut, but this scene was on my mind. I wasn't going to post it, but after the finale on Wednesday, I decided I should. I hope it brings someone some happiness. I am notoriously impatient when it comes to remembering to go back and edit, so please don't judge me too harshly.


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